


More or Less

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Sabrina the Teenage Witch (TV)
Genre: And the one that finally worked, F/M, Flowers, Luxury Liners, Old Friends, The many seductions of Salem Saberhagen, Witches and their cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 04:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13310730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: She tells him to give her seventy years.  He gives her about fifteen.





	More or Less

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Egg Nog": featuring Sabrina and Salem through the years, many seductions included free of charge.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is just a bit of fun to start off the new year. Please enjoy. :)

She tells him to give her seventy years. He gives her about fifteen.

(Fourteen years, fifty-one weeks, and who-knows-how-many days. Not that she’s counting or anything.)

“Cat.” Sabrina says, flicking hair from her eyes. It’s now all about the one-syllable answers, after four weeks and some-odd-days of incredibly unsubtle reminders from the black fur-ball perpetually in her shadow. His creativity is impressive; the efforts range from the obnoxious (a failed seduction when his attempt to light candles ended in disaster) to those which are admittedly flattering in their efforts.

“Where is your sense of adventure, Sabrina?” Salem pouts. He flutters those big yellow eyes and arches against her arm with a low purr.

She flicks him on the nose. “ _Cat_.”

But of course, there are two things in this world which Salem Saberhagen has yet to understand: the word “no,” and the concept of giving up. 

***

Two weeks later, she gets a call from the front desk at her publishing job: flowers, delivered for her. It’s a lavish bouquet of multi-colored daises. No note. They smell lovely and look very nice in her office: a bit of bright color for white-wash walls and oak furniture.

One hour later, her phone rings again. It’s another bouquet. Tulips, this time. No note. She puts them on the small end-table, opposite side of the office, to balance out the color scheme.

One hour later, the phone rings. Again. More flowers. Lilies.

The next hour, it’s purple irises.

Next hour, orchids and baby’s breath. The following hour, a rainbow bouquet of carnations. After that, a giant bunch of sunflowers. Then pink peonies by the dozen. Finally, the last hour is marked with roses.

Four dozen long-stemmed roses in full bloom.

She gets looks from every Bob, Joe, Sally, and Jane on her way out the door. (Most of the roses and a handful of the rest come home with her. She has limited space to work as it is without turning her office into a small greenhouse.)

The cat is nowhere to be found. In her room, a gift box, fully-wrapped, is waiting on the bed. She opens the offering with tentative fingers, lifts the lid, and—

“ _Salem_!!!!!!”

He is wholly unapologetic and barely blinks during the forty-some minutes she’s yelling at him, ranting about invasions of privacy and inappropriate uses of her credit card. She storms off, slams her bedroom door, and vows to keep him locked out for the next week.

Her vow lasts three days. Then she forgets (chooses not to, neglects to, however you like it) to close her door and he helps himself inside while she’s in the shower.

“I rather thought the color brought out your eyes.” He says, nuzzling at her shoulder.

“Hmph.” She sleeps on her side, facing away from him no matter how gentle he’s behaving at the moment. A clear-cut ‘I’m still mad at you’ without saying a single word.

She keeps the box stashed in some banished corner of her closet, and doesn’t consider even for a moment that, indeed, the color might actually bring out her eyes.

***

Lunch with Harvey has been an established ritual since the late college years. They meet up at little cafés, chat about old times and catch up on each other’s personal lives. On occasion, they meet for dinner at Sabrina’s house or Harvey’s apartment. They play cards. Salem cheats. Sabrina argues with her cat while Harvey tries (and fails) to not laugh. After about twenty minutes, everything settles down and they finish the night with coffee and dessert.

The day Sabrina earns herself a promotion at the publishing firm, she calls for a celebration and invites Harvey for a special dinner at the favorite local seafood joint. He arrives with a special guest.

“Sabrina,” he seems a little apprehensive, “this is Julie.”

Julie is a redhead with pretty hazel eyes and shy smile. Sabrina greets her with a warm embrace and bright grin. It is both surprising and reassuring, at least for her, when every kind word and inviting gesture is genuine. She’s happy for Harvey. He deserves this nice girl, and the kind of future they’ll build together.

When Julie excuses herself to the bathroom, Harvey addresses the elephant in the room—but, really, the elephant is only in his mind. She released the beast from existence long ago.

“I expect to be invited to the wedding.” She smiles, winks, and laughs with him. The elephant is gone, for both of them.

“Your loss, Harv,” Salem declares, the next poker night (they’ll make the introductions for Julie…later), “and my gain.” He adds, much later, stretched comfortably along Sabrina’s side in bed.

She smiles, strokes his fur, and doesn’t correct him.

(Anything else, really, would be a lie.)

***

Sabrina’s forty-fifth birthday (and not looking a day over thirty!) is marked with Aunt Irma inviting herself to a quiet family dinner. She comes bearing resumes of every eligible witch in the Other Realm. Color photos included, free of charge.

“You don’t need to choose right now.” Aunt Irma says, happily ignoring all exasperated looks around the table (and the way Salem’s fur is bristling). “This is a very important decision to make. Take your time, and once you see something you like, I shall arrange the wedding preparations.”

Sabrina doesn’t bang her head on the table. Not until everyone has left and she’s alone. Then she drops her forehead on polished surface and only winces a little at the responding throb. When a developing headache interrupts her sulking, she pops an aspirin and goes to find her cat.

She finds him on the porch. More specifically, she finds him pouting in the far corner, stuffed under a bench. Only his twitching tail is visible.

“Stop sulking.” She gathers him in her arms, fingers rubbing the special spot behind both ears. “She’ll move on eventually.”

“Hmph.”

He sulks for the rest of the night. And the rest of the week. By start of the second week, Sabrina decides enough is officially enough. She starts making plans the next day.

***

The idea of going on a cruise is enough to perk Salem’s spirits, at least a bit. He’s mostly enchanted by prospects of ‘All You Can Eat’ buffets and luxury bedding—and someone else footing the bill. Sabrina stows him away on the plane (he gripes about the lacking accommodations in her carry-on for half an hour) and claims him as a service animal on the ship. (He looks adorable in the little vest she bought and no amount of protests on his part will convince her otherwise).

He stops complaining when they get into the suite.

She leaves the cat to his own devices for a few hours. She runs a couple errands in preparation for tonight and sneaks back into the room just in time to order dinner in for the two of them and finish getting ready.

(Salem’s tendency to take five-hour naps works in her favor. He’s dead to the world until the room service arrives.)

“You were right,” Sabrina says, slipping out the bathroom door and luxuriously stretching for a minute—and if his eyes could get any wider, she doubts it, “the color _does_ bring out my eyes.”

How, exactly, he knew her size is a matter she’s willing to overlook. The silk is delicious against her skin, soft and cool and perfect. The lace trim is elegant and makes her feel sophisticated, almost regal. The way he’s looking at her makes her feel beautiful. Sexy. Desirable. All the things she hasn’t felt in almost fifty years of life.

(The fact she neither looks nor feels her age is irrelevant. It’s an incredibly different feeling to be desired as a woman, not a pretty college-age girl.)

Dinner is fit for a romantic evening: steak (extra-rare for the cat) with all the trimmings, fresh rolls, and a decadent dessert. None of this, naturally, is fit for a feline diet, but this cat has been eating everything under the sun for years and it hasn’t killed him yet. Besides, he’d throw a fit if he was deprived of a free steak meal.

The evening comes to a relaxed end with soft music and low light. Outside, on the terrace, there is a view of velvet-black skies and stars sparkling far and wide. She reclines in the chair, Salem stretches across her front, and all is right with the world.


End file.
